A miserable Poirot is called to London and boards the Orient Express. On the second night, one of the passengers is found brutally stabbed to death and Poirot is implored to investigate before the authorities arrive.

8/10

This is a surprisingly gripping, if humourless, adaptation which successfully provokes thought about the nature of justice and who has the right to execute it. Most surprisingly, it stops Poirot from delivering the traditional summation (Princess Dragamoff takes over and does it) which rather undermines the triumph of intellect required to close these stories on a high. Instead, the story ends with a cold miserable Poirot clearly feeling like he’s been backed into a corner where he had to choose the least wrong answer. It’s not the joyous revelation of the book or previous adaptations, but it is definitely interesting and a worthwhile tinkering for this screen outing of the classic Christie.

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Using the stoned Turkish woman as an example of the rights and wrongs of vigilante justice was a major mistake. All the screenwriter did was transform Poirot into a hypocrite.

There is no way Cassetti would have been a member of the Mafia. The Mafia in the 1930s did not engage in kidnappings of wealthy or famous personages or their children. Criminals like Alvin Karpis or John Dillinger would have committed such crimes. And the screenplay made a mistake in identifying Cassetti as a member of the Chicago mob. And there is no way the Chicago mob would have had New York judges, lawyers, etc. in their back pockets . . . not without arousing the ire of the New York mobsters.